


Or Leave a Kiss Within the Cup

by stormwalkers



Category: Lockwood & Co. - Jonathan Stroud
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Ficlet, Fluff, Say goodbye to your teeth, Valentine's Day, post-TEG, this one's a rotter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:42:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22699609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stormwalkers/pseuds/stormwalkers
Summary: It's Lucy and Lockwood's first Valentine's Day together. What better way to spend it than in a freezing cold underground cellar, waiting for a ghost?
Relationships: Lucy Carlyle/Anthony Lockwood
Comments: 12
Kudos: 85





	Or Leave a Kiss Within the Cup

Somewhere in the midst of a very long stake-out at an abandoned Leytonstone winery, Lockwood grasped my arm.

“Luce,” he said, breath pluming like a puff of frosty smoke. “Am I imagining it, or did the temp drop just now?”

I glanced at my thermometer, then at him. “The first option,” I confirmed.

“Bugger. I’m going loopy. Do you reckon it’s the cold or the alcoholic vapours?”

“The general state of rotting decay, maybe.” I shuddered against him. “I really don’t know, Lockwood.”

We were sitting against the back wall of the winery’s deepest, dankest cellar, sharing an iron circle. All around us, rows of tar black bottles were collecting dust on their shelves; in the corner stood a great winepress resembling a wooden barrel with a mechanised basket for a hat. Keeping us waiting was the ghost of a winemaker’s apprentice who, some twenty years earlier, had tried to repair this very device from the inside—an unenviable task, seeing as he’d ended up with his head crushed like a large grape between its hydraulic plates. The unlucky chap had not yet been to see us. We’d checked in twice with George and Holly, who were stationed in the bottling room upstairs; they’d given identical reports of precisely zip.

But the cold—oh, the _cold_ —was so bitter, you’d think we’d wandered into a grand ghost party attended by every spirit this side of the Thames. Even the tiniest movement felt like being stabbed by several invisible icicles.

Don’t get me wrong. I’d dealt with my share of supernatural chill. I’d even felt the frosty bite of the Other Side, an experience that had marked me forever. But sitting around an abandoned underground cellar in mid-February, breathing in mildew and death? Unpleasant at the best of times. Add a capricious ghost to the mix, and you have a strong contender for the Worst Job Ever.

The only thing keeping it from ranking with the Bridewell sewer case was having Lockwood there with me. He looked just as cold and uncomfortable as I felt, and the dim light of the cellar tinged his face with a sort of sickly pallor. But his old energy shone through, intoxicating as ever. His presence galvanised my blood and kept my spirits high. His smile was a ray of light and warmth, his laugh a tinkling bell on a sunny day… That was the Lockwood Effect™ for you. My thigh pressed against his in the small iron circle, the contours of our bodies fitting together just so.

Our hands rested by our weapons, ready to draw at a moment’s notice in the event something large and scary and dead decided to pop up. That was part of our training. Always be on your guard. Very important stuff.

I found myself reaching for Lockwood’s hand anyway.

The moment our fingers touched, they laced together as if on instinct, his hand dwarfing mine as they curled around each other.

Just so.

He looked at me, and my heart did a little flip. _Easy. You’re at work._ “Stay alert there, Lucy,” he said. “Even if the ghost doesn’t show, the mould on these walls looks ready to evolve into something sentient.”

“Yuck,” I said, flexing my fingers against his. “This place is _so_ manky. Quill was right to take today off.”

“I wish our friend Mr. Grape Head would turn up soon. Not that I’m looking _forward_ to seeing him, or that hanging out like this isn’t nice...”—he gave my hand a fond squeeze—“but it would be a welcome distraction.”

“Agreed. I think he’s being a right diva.”

“Luce, please don’t make me laugh. It’s too cold.” Lockwood gave a mighty tremble, and we huddled a little closer.

“Hanging out _would_ be a lot nicer without this bloody cold.” I sniffled, wiping the back of my free hand across my nose. “And the alcoholic vapours.”

“Don’t forget the general state of rotting decay.” When he smiled, a pleasant flush rushed to my cheeks. “Let’s hope Holly and George are having better luck upstairs.”

We leaned back against the wall. The night was silent, psychically and otherwise. But our work was yet to begin; the threat of supernatural activity lurked behind every bottle, keeping us on guard.

A cold shiver rippled through me...

And I felt Lockwood scooting closer and wrapping his arm around me and pulling me into him. I nestled against him, appreciating his warmth like I’d never truly felt it until now.

We sat like that for a while; then Lockwood roused, eyes suddenly alert. “I’ve just remembered something.”

I looked at him. “What? What is it? Don’t tell me you forgot the chains or something. Actually, never mind—we’re sitting on them, aren't we?”

“It’s past midnight,” he said softly. “It’s Valentine’s Day, Luce.”

“Oh.” I stared blankly, turning today’s date over in my mind. “Oh!”

“Yeah.” Lockwood gave an awkward grin. “I, uh, wish I’d taken you somewhere nicer…”

I smiled, glancing at a spot on the wall where a particularly large encrustation of mould seemed to be growing legs. “That’s alright, Lockwood.”

I hadn’t thought much of Valentine’s Day before, or thought of it at all, really. Valentine’s Day was flowers and poetry and frilly pink cards with syrupy sentiments—not the sort of thing I had the most patience for. I imagined Lockwood and me exchanging heart-shaped iron wards or little silver cupids, serenading each other with sweet nothings… Yeah, no.

“But,” he continued, “seeing as it is our first official Valentine’s together, is there anything you’d like?”

“Well…” I looked around, pondering our opportunities. “Not the best place for a candlelit dinner, is it?”

“Not unless you count eating sandwiches in the glow of the snuff-lights.” Lockwood glanced at the winepress in the corner of the room. “With a ghost breathing down our necks.”

“George pinched the last bit of chocolate ages ago, and flowers would probably wilt at the mere suggestion of being in this room. As for jewellery…” I put a hand to my collar, beneath which my necklace hung safely. My face warmed, and I swear Lockwood’s ears turned pink.

“Yeah,” he said, smiling a soft smile. “Besides, George has a strict set of rules about what we can and cannot do together on cases.”

“So…”

“So.”

“Are you gonna kiss me, then?”

He lifted an eyebrow. “And break the first rule, Lucy?”

I nodded firmly.

“You bet.” And so he took me about the waist and pulled me into him and kissed me soundly. Just like that, I stopped shivering.

 _Lockwood_. My mind was giddy, my heart light. Our lips could touch a million times over, and I’d be equally amazed at how incredible it felt each time. Heat—wonderful, brilliant heat!—instantly swirled through me. I wrapped my arms about him just as he squeezed tighter around my waist and back, deepening the kiss and enveloping me with his warmth.

When we drew apart, we stayed close enough to share a breath. My hands cupped the back of Lockwood’s neck, dipping into the collar of his dark coat; he rubbed at my sides to keep me warm. Despite the objectionable surroundings and the looming threat of psychic danger, I felt completely at ease.

“Yeah,” I whispered. “I could think of worse dates.”

“So could I.” His voice was soft, and he was smiling. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Luce.”

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” I said, or began to. A few syllables were lost when he cupped my face and kissed me again. We kissed and kissed and when it was over, Lockwood's open mouth lingered over mine. Softly, slowly, he ran his teeth across my lower lip and gave it a nibble.

Bloody hell. Mr. Grape Head could wait.

All of a sudden, there were footsteps. We heard the faint _thud-thud-thud_ from elsewhere in the building, starting down the stairs and approaching fast. It was the same heavy trot that could be heard at 35 Portland Row whenever George scudded by with his papers and books. Accompanying it was the rather more dainty tip-tapping that foretold Holly’s arrival.

“Holy hell, it’s like Siberia in here!” That was George’s voice, punching through the quiet.

The door had been opened, and our two friends stood in the dark passageway, gripping at their coats and shuddering against the cold.

“Are you two doing alright?” Holly said, her words muffled by the scarf she was clutching around her face. “Sense anything yet?”

“Not yet,” I said, scooting away from Lockwood as subtly as I could.

George, who was so utterly engulfed by his padded coat and knit hat that he resembled a giant woollen egg, considered us with narrowed eyes. “These two look far too happy about the situation, Hol,” he said, shaking his head. “Look at the dopey grins on their faces. _I_ can tell.”

Lockwood and I looked at each other, cracking smiles because we couldn’t help it.

 _“See?”_ George tutted. “We joined back up at the right time. Let’s put the kettle on and share observations. It’s time to get to work.”

I grasped at Lockwood, and we helped each other up, slowly regaining feeling in our frozen feet. Holly was rummaging through her bag; she began setting up the camping stove as George flipped through his notes. And when the others weren’t looking, Lockwood put a hand on the small of my back, a press of warmth in the freezing cellar. I knew what it meant.

_We pick each other up._

Yeah, I could definitely think of worse dates.

**Author's Note:**

> This ficlet idea came to me a few days ago, and my brain wouldn't let me forget until it was written. Happy Valentine's Day to you and yours! Thank you for your love and support — I wish I were a good enough writer to express what it means to me.


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